“We can hold a wake,” Trent murmurs.
Grandpa nods. “We’ll need a coffin.”
A strange, cool shiver curls down my spine.
I’ve never been to a wake before.
I don’t know... what to do. But I feel, desperately, that it’s something important. This ritual to lay her to rest. This moment to say goodbye.
“Grandpa, I saw a shoebox in your luggage, could we repurpose?—”
“Not that,” Grandpa and Trent say at the same time.
They trade a look and quickly avert their eyes. I rock on my heels. Trent shifts slowly to his feet, not looking back. “I have another box.”
I frown.
Grandpa holds up a hand. “Help me up?”
I grab his hand, his elbow, and steer him—groaning—to his feet. He pats my shoulder. “Come. Let’s get music and think about food.”
“Food for the wake?” I say. But yes, food offers comfort in times of grief, can encourage conversation. What would be most comforting for Grandpa? That we could have at the farm...
I straighten. “I—I’ll organise the food. I know exactly what to get.”
Grandpa leans in, curious.
I better not say it aloud, or Trent might veto. “It’s a surprise. Trust me?”
Grandpa gestures for his cane, and I give it to him. He leans on it and looks at me. “You’re a good kid. I trust you always mean well.”
His voice has a sincere rumble to it that has something light rising in me, and on a hop I get the farm address from Trent, then head outside.
The service takes my order and then, “Name?”
I glimpse Grandpa lurking nearby. “Ah, Ika.”
“We’ll see you there at noon.”
“What’s at noon?” Trent murmurs, carrying a shoebox carefully, in a way that says the chicken’s laid inside it.
“You’ll see,” I say. “I’ll grab the luggage.”
Half an hour later, Trent and Grandpa are sitting in the front of the truck. I’m in the back next to the shoe-boxed chicken, ahand on its lid. The truck smells of petrol and damp earth. The road hums beneath us, the box thudding gently at each bend.
It’s a strange ride up to the farm. Grandpa has me texting all the oldies to prepare for a wake, and then he’s going through all his favourite tunes, trying to find the ultimate Chicken send-off.
“A-ha!” he says finally. “I’ve got it.” But he doesn’t play his epiphany. We’re to wait for it.
Trent glances at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes have kept searching for mine the entire drive up the winding Rimutakas. Like he’s nervous for me. Like he’s checking I’m still okay. That I’m still there.
I tilt him a small smile.
His fingers stretch and readjust on the wheel, the same slow, careful motion that just yesterday curled around my hip.
My breath catches and I quickly look away, out towards the deep valley of bush, my hand suctioning onto the shoebox lid. We haven’t spoken about it. There were words after, but safe ones.Are you comfortable? Would you like another pillow? Your toes are freezing! Curl in, I’ll keep you warm.
What’s next? What does this mean? Has temptation been sated?
